Expectation
by Noxialis
Summary: It was a Bad Idea. It was a Very Bad Idea. But Sam couldn't help but relive it over and over in a fake semblance of what had happened. He can't get anything more. It's all he expects. Wincest. Set during Season 1.
1. Expectation

**I own nothing.**

**Expectation**

It wasn't something that happened overnight, a sudden realization that he was utterly and completely in love with his brother. There was a growing feeling, shifting from a wondrous adoration and admiration for his older brother that was so much cooler and stronger than he was. There was slight changes, a day by day thing, that were so small and so long ago that they blend together in his memories, hiding the exact ages when he thought his brother was so cool, then so handsome, and then so incredibly masculine and sexy that he could barely stand it anymore.

He could, however, remember the single day, the single moment, where the feelings he hid within his heart surfaced. They were shoved in his face, as well as Dean's crotch.

Dean marked it up to the alcohol he had consumed, and Sam agreed if only to soothe the man's ego. Certainly, the older man had drunk a number of beers, but Sam was inclined to think that he hadn't been all that drunk.

He wasn't entirely sure how the events leading up to it ran, as he knew he had a fair amount of alcohol in his own system. Enough to lower his inhibitions and allow him to reveal his desires. What he did know was that he was sitting on the bed of their motel room, his fingers bumbling with the button on Dean's jeans. He heard moans and groans, mumbled and incoherent words reaching his ears like a sin filled prayer. There were licks and nips that were enough to be playful and not hurt too much – because this is Dean and Sam would never want to hurt his Dean – until he came and they were panting and soaking in the realization of what they've done, oh God, what have they done?

Sam does not regret doing what he's done, he really doesn't, because it's something he's always wanted and he would give nearly anything to do it again. What he regrets are the words "We shouldn't have done this." That are about to spill forth from Dean's lips, and "We were drunk." That he keeps repeating and repeating until Sam agrees, adding a small slur in his voice just to seem that much more drunk. It seems to work, and the matter is dropped between the two.

What Sam regrets is the fact that this is not just some lust he's built up over the years of it being only him and Dean. He regrets the utter and complete rejection that Dean gives him afterwards, and he regrets staying around in the bars that they go to long enough to see Dean hit on some girl (and it's always a girl, because as much as Sam wishes, Dean is straight) and later guide her out for a night of pleasure that Sam wishes he could give. But he can't, because as Dean's actions have said and Sam's own thoughts have confirmed, Dean is most definitely not gay.

All Sam has are his fantasies, his daydreams of the various and romantic ways that he and Dean could become closer. He had gone through soft-spoken confessions while they lay awake during a sleepless night and (one of his favourites) rough lips pressed against the other when pushing them against the nearest wall after a heated argument. The idea that, after a particular hunt where Sam would end up injured just a little too much, Dean would rush to his side and proclaim his undying love for him.

But Sam had already gone through an ordeal like that, even after That Night. One annoying demon had run rampant through some small town, and had run a small dagger through Sam's shoulder. Dean subdued the demon while Sam writhed on the ground, clutching his bleeding shoulder and his own teeth in an effort to not cry out in pain. Dean had hovered over him, asking Sam if he was okay in a tone that showed he was worried, he really was, he just wasn't worried enough to rush to his side and stop the bleeding. Sam grit his teeth and mumbled that yeah, he was fine, and forced himself to stand up, even though every small movement hurt and when he placed pressure on his hand so he could stand up, it hurt like a fucking bitch that made Sam want to let loose a string of curses that Dean didn't even know that Sam knew. Instead, he spoke the words they needed for the exorcism, even though his voice trembled at some points (Dean didn't notice, he didn't say anything. He just clapped Sam on his good shoulder and said they should get out of there.)

It wasn't something worth remembering. Still, he clutched close all the memories about Dean that he could, treasuring them like jewels. And he used them when he couldn't stand things anymore.

Things started to reach that state about a month after That Night. What was it they were chasing? Sam started to lose track. They were in another of those run-of-the-mill bars that they always seemed to find, a perfect information gathering center, Dean called them. The only information he seemed to be gathering was what the pretty, young ladies inhabiting the bars were doing that night.

Sam can't remember what the first guy looked like. All he remembers for the first part is watching Dean with blatant jealousy and want in his eyes and drinking another beer as soon as he saw Dean's hand on the girl's hip. She was probably blonde. He thinks the guy was blonde, too, but he can't remember, so he places an image in his mind, something as different from Dean as he can get.

He remembers he went to the bathroom first, and the (blonde?) guy followed in after him. He can't remember what was said, who asked who first, but soon they were hiding in a stall and he was on his knees, bringing out the memory of Dean in his mouth so that he can't catch up with what he's really doing.

They finish without a bang, without anything special, and the other man leaves without another word, leaving Sam with the thought that if he drank enough of the toilet's water he could wash the taste of the other man out of his mouth. But he's not quite stupid enough to do that, so he settles for the water from the sink instead.

It goes on like that for a while, and Sam is sure that Dean doesn't notice anything, not the constant trips to the bathroom Sam happens to make, or the calluses that begin to form on his knees. He's too occupied with the women he meets and beds, and Sam makes sure that he stays in the bathroom long enough that he can't see when Dean leaves with the woman on his arm.

It's never any problem, since the men never expect anything more and Sam keeps moving from town to town like he's trying to avoid them anyway. But he's just hunting, and he just keeps doing that, because that's what he is and what he knows, and he can't stop doing that, just like he can't stop imagining that it's always Dean's hips he has his hands pressed firmly against, that it's Dean's scarred hands clutching his hair and pressing him down, further, like he's pressing him right down into Hell. Sam sometimes thinks he's about to go to Hell for all these acts he commits and the love he harbors for his brother.

He never lets the men kiss him, and rarely do they expect one out of him, because he hasn't kissed Dean yet and until he has a memory of how Dean's lips feel against his own, he won't let his lips touch someone else's, because he needs a memory so he can pretend that it's Dean, Dean, and only Dean.

Because, really, it's all he has. It's all he expects.


	2. Lamentation

**Lamentation**

Sam knew something was wrong with him. He could even pinpoint what was wrong. He probably made a list at some point, though he would have promptly tore it up into tiny pieces that would never be put together again. He may or may not have burned those pieces as well.

He loved his brother. Everybody loved his brother. That was a problem for Sam, since Dean seemed to be mentally incapable of loving anyone.

No, that was wrong. There was Cassie, as well as others. Sam chose not to think of them, knowing that would just cause him to be bitter.

Another thing wrong with him? Frequent blowjobs, given to anonymous people in some run down bar that they seemed to always come across. Why did he keep – oh, that's right. He knew why he did it. Because his brother was such a manwhore, and Sam couldn't stand to see it. Blowjobs seemed to be a nice distraction.

It caused more problems than it solved, Sam found.

The one Major Problem he found happened in August. Last August, he believes; though it's a day he would really rather forget. Too bad it happened to cling to the edges of his mind like a spider and it's web. He could brush away the webs, but the spider remained to re-create it.

He thought he could get out of the bathroom business, and get used to seeing his brother walk out with a girl on his arm. He chose a nice little seat, off to the corner where the shadows would hide his gaze. He nursed a beer, taking sips from the rim while he typed away on his laptop. _Someone_ should get actual work done.

His eyes happened to look up at the wrong time. But he had finished with a news report, and figured that it was important enough to bother Dean.

But Dean was currently leaning over, whispering something into some dark-haired girl's ear. She giggled, and Sam could swear her face almost flushed. She nodded, grinning. Sam couldn't see Dean's face from his current angle. But he didn't need to see Dean's face to know what was going to happen. Dean slipped his arm around the girl's back and the both of them set down their empty drinks.

Step by step, walking towards the door, and Sam felt his insides burn and curl in on themselves. It didn't take long before they were outside, surely going to the Impala, going back to the motel Sam and Dean were staying at. Or maybe they would head to the girl's place. Sam didn't want to think about it.

His fingers curled around the bottle until his fingernails scraped against the label. He raised it to his lips and took a large swig, downing the rest of the bottle. He closed the laptop and angrily shoved it into his bag.

He needed beer.

Lots and lots of beer.

Ordering another bottle, Sam forgot why he thought he was ready to look at Dean leave with another woman. The beer was quickly finished, and without even ordering, another came to him.

The bartender said it was a gift from the gentleman down the bar, and Sam eagerly accepted without even looking to see who it was. He didn't care. Beer was beer.

He remembers the man approaching him, striking up a conversation. Mostly one-sided, if Sam remembers correctly, but he can't be sure about that. He can't be sure about anything. The only thing he's sure of is that it was the man who started it, because even drunk, Sam's sure he wouldn't offer something so stupid.

He's sitting in some leather seat – a car seat – his mind is able to register. Then there's a house, a room, a bed. The creaking and groaning of the bedsprings rattle in his ears – can't the man afford to fix that?

He thinks that after that, his mind forced him to blank out any memories, something for which he's grateful. Because when he wakes up in a strange bed, sticky, sweaty, and sore, he doesn't want to remember the details. He can tell what happened.

Sam chooses to curl up in a ball for a little while, until the tears have subsided into heaving dry sobs. There's no one there, he doesn't need to hold anything back. Not even a note saying 'Thanks for the fun, lock the door on your way out.' Not that he has anything to lock the door with, but his mind has gotten the point across.

Next he chooses to locate his clothes and clean up. Sitting up, he feels a pain running up his backside, as well as some smaller, dullened sore spots over the rest of his body. He grits his teeth and bears it, folding his clothes into a pile and placing them on the sink of the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom.

He inspects himself in the mirror, finding that, yes, he does have scratch marks running along his arms and back. There are already the fading bruises from the last hunt, and the overall feeling weighing on him makes for a rather unattractive look in the mirror. Sam turned away and chose to take a hot shower, praying that would make him feel better.

It does, slightly.

He's clothed again, and he wanders through the house a little, finding his bag with everything still intact. He takes small comfort in the fact the man had enough of a conscience to not rob him after the drunken sex. Sam doesn't feel like giving the man the same pleasure, and starts with a small apple from the fridge.

If he's going to feel like a whorish piece of shit, he might as well do it on a full stomach.

After a glass of juice and a couple of store-bought cookies he finds in the pantry, Sam feels like it's time for him to go. He leaves the door open a crack, just a tiny sliver, because he thinks he would feel a lot better if the guy ended up robbed because he didn't leave some way to have the door locked.

He doesn't know where he is, but soon finds a street sign that showed the correct way he needed to walk in order to find the motel. Sam wondered how Dean will react to him showing up the next morning, then wonders if Dean even arrived at the motel already. He prays he went to the girl's house last night.

When he arrived at the motel room, Sam realized that there was no God. Dean was there, his cell phone out, and one hand over the gun on the counter.

"Geez, Sam, I thought you might've been some robber or something. Where have you been, I've been calling!" Dean said, both irritated and relieved that his brother's alright.

Sam blinked, nice and slow, a hangover still present. "Really?" He reached into his bag and pulled out his cell phone, then gave a small chuckle. "Ooops, dead battery. Sorry, didn't mean to make you worry."

Dean looked ready to continue chewing Sam out, because he still hasn't gotten where Sam was last night, but Sam counters by pulling out his laptop. He showed Dean the news report he found last night, and the two go off on a trip, getting more information. There are suits and lies, something very normal for them, but at the end of daylight they still haven't found enough to know what they're up against.

Dean said they had to go back to the bar, because he saw the bartender in one of the photos and that is probably the best lead they have so far.

Sam's eyes widen, just a fraction, and he quickly shook his head, excusing himself. He remembers telling Dean something lame, some lame lie that Dean doesn't buy but goes along with anyway.

Sam knows the chances are slim, but he knew the man from the Major Problem could be there again. Sam doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to do anything right now.

He has one more regret to add to the list, and scribbles down how he's a whore when drunk and depressed, and swiftly tears the words in half, a quarter, a tenth.

The embers that flicker up from the wastebasket are dealt with before they can become another problem.


	3. Exposition

**Exposition**

Sam spends a couple of hours on his laptop, boredly idling through the same news reports and links they looked through before. There's nothing new, not like Sam expects there to be. He tries to find out more about that bartender that Dean is probably chatting up over a beer right now. All he gets is a name, age, and involvement in the attacks.

He knew all that already.

What he doesn't know is why Dean comes back with anger written into every line on his face. Sam looks up at him, blinking, wondering if he's done something to make his brother mad.

Of course he has. It's really only a matter of whether Dean finds out or not.

Dean says nothing, just gives Sam a small nod of a greeting, showing Sam that he's not the one he's angry at. Dean doesn't want to say anything, and Sam's not sure what to say, so he keeps quiet about the marks on Dean's knuckles. The scraping of flesh. Sam's pretty sure he saw a tooth imbedded in there, too, but he wasn't close enough to confirm it.

He keeps his lips sealed when Dean goes and takes his shower, and chooses this time to change into his sleepwear. His clothes are stuffed into a bag, because they're probably close enough to leaving now that he doesn't need to have them strewn about.

"I, ah, talked to Jack." The bartender, Sam has to remind himself, though the name is imprinted on his mind from reading it so many times. "Based on his description, I think we're dealing with a gjenganger here." Dean's voice drifts from the bathroom, though the sounds of his shower had stopped.

"Alright." Sam said, nodding a little while pulling a t-shirt over his head, his arms through the sleeves. "We can deal with it tomorrow night, y'know, gather up our supplies in the morning."

"Where did you get those?"

Sam turned around, rather surprised. He hadn't even heard the bathroom door opening, and then realized what Dean must have been looking at. His shirt hadn't been pulled all the way down, revealing a set of scratches trailing from his shoulder blade to his hip.

Sam flushed, turning away and pulling the shirt down the rest of the way. "Hmm, I don't know. Was that last hunt?"

"Those were fresh. Last hunt was over a week ago."

Damn. Of course Dean would notice that. Sam tried his best to shrug nonchalantly, but his thought his muscles were too tense. His shoulders felt like rocks.

"Did you have sex with that guy?"

Sam could have done a spit take, right then, right there. His eyebrows nearly flew off his face and he spun around. He couldn't hide the shame that rose up to his cheeks. Without words, Dean got his answer.

He ran his fingers through the short spikes of hair, gritting his teeth and sighing between the small gaps. Dean's eyes were closed, or half closed. Sam couldn't tell, since his own eyes were glued to the carpet fibers. He was biting his lip, and he could see a couple of drops fall into the fibers. Why couldn't that just call up some dark hole that could drag him down and away from Dean? The thought that Hell would be a welcome escape from Dean passes his mind for a moment.

"Fuck." Dean's the one to break the silence, and it's surprise enough for Sam to lift his gaze for a moment. "So he was right…"

Sam keeps quiet. What can he say, really? He can't tell if he's supposed to defend himself, make up some sort of excuse. Faintly, like a call in the far-off distance, he can hear Dean telling it like a story, that a man approached him talking about Sam and how he saw him looking at Dean at the bar. How he offered to let Dean join in on a threesome, and how he went on to brag about how good Sam was, which had been the point Dean's fist made friends with the man's face.

Sam found that to be fairly gratifying, more so than hearing that the man got robbed ever could be. Somehow, it still didn't make him feel much better.

He could hear the question of why he did it, growing louder and louder with each time Dean repeated it. Sam still couldn't look at him.

"I just needed to get hammered… I couldn't take it…" he began, so sure that he was rambling at least a little bit. "He bought me drinks, I don't know how many… I got too drunk to say no, I guess…" God, this was embarrassing and shame filled. Why was Dean forcing this out of him?

"Why the hell did you need to get hammered in the first place?! You were just getting information!"

"Yeah, well, why don't you give it a try once in a while!" Sam snapped, bringing his eyes up from the bloodstains in the carpet to meet Dean's eyes. "You're only in those bars to meet women and have sex with them! Why is what I did any different?"

Dean was taken aback, and an emotion akin to shock flickered across his face. He took a moment to steel it and looked hard at Sam. "What is this about?"

He's had his doubts, Sam realizes, ever since That Night. He's doubted Sam's feelings, wondering if they ever crossed the big, fat boundary between brother and lover. So he's grown distant. He's even stopped calling him Sammy.

Sam doesn't think the truth will set him free. If the truth is like a key, and Sam is trapped in a birdcage, Dean on the outside, the door may open, but Dean will walk away. Hell, he might even run.

"I'm in love with you."

Sam doesn't care much for lying to his brother. He lies every day, to everybody, but he always felt like his brother should be the one he could confide in. So he spews forth his confession, finding it to be nothing like the scenarios his mind had conjured up.

"Oh… Um, sorry…" Dean obviously doesn't now what to say. Sam doesn't blame him. "Sam, I don't think… I'm not sure I can…"

"It's okay. I understand. Just brotherly love, right?" Sam smiles sadly, trying to ease the situation. It's been broken, like an expensive vase, and he has to try and salvage the pieces. He needs to have at least a semblance of the original item. "I'll deal with it, don't worry. Just something I needed to get off my chest, y'know?"

Dean nods, almost dumbly, because he wants there to be something normal as well. He'll go along with the plan, because that's the closest thing to normalcy that they have, and in their line of business, they need to have some kind of rock to cling to when the water's rough.

"Alright," Sam says, pressing a plastic smile onto his face. "So, what'll we need for this gjengander?"

They immerse themselves in their own sense of normalcy, pretending nothing happened. It's all they have now, their regular routine, a something that they hold onto because there's nothing else solid in their lives.

Everything else for Sam is nothing but a dream, a fantasy.

He's now an expert on knowing why fantasies are better than reality. The fantasy doesn't leave this sick, crawling feeling in the pit of his stomach.


	4. Realization

**Realization**

Dean understood what had happened.

The feeling of Sam touching him, licking him - to let his mind continue this path would result in something undesirable happening. He was sober enough to remember what happened, and moral enough to understand that it was a Very Bad Idea.

He thought he could just blow it off – oooh, his mind betrayed him, that was a very bad phrase to use for that situation – and continue on like nothing happened. He jumped at that idea, but he couldn't help but notice Sam hesitating a little. He chalked it up to stress and probably shame for the first little while, until he caught the glances.

With every glance, an image of the Very Bad Idea came rushing back into his mind, and Dean found he needed to do something, fast. He needed to flush what he thought he saw right out of Sam's eyes. The smoldering look, that jealous eye when Dean happened to be chatting up a pretty young lady for information.

That's probably when Dean got an equally Bad Idea.

Before, it had been that Dean would flirt and gather numbers upon expeditions to the bars, and maybe take up an offer for a quick lay. Now the numbers were being gathered less and less, and the trips to the bedroom became more and more frequent. Every night. Sometimes twice.

He started losing track of Sam, not noticing when he made his long trips to the bathroom, choosing to leave before Sam came back. Then he drowned himself in the empty sex, trying to fill the empty space with moans and groans and empty women.

It didn't feel like it was helping, and after a while, it felt like any possible meaning that he could have strung to this Bad Idea was unraveling at an alarming speed.

He went to the girl's places, assuming that Sam would return to the motel room so he could sleep after doing the actual work. He would come back, sometimes in the early morning, sometimes in the early, early morning. He would always find Sam snoozing away in his bed, a handsome man who seemed to be freed of his troubles.

Of course, maybe that was just something that happened in the dreaming worlds. The same looks that Dean saw before always returned whenever Sam's eyes would open and land on Dean.

Dean returned once, he remembered, only to find that Sam was not there, sleeping away all his problems. He had been worried, but was sure a quick phone call would rectify everything.

No answer.

Again.

No answer.

To find Sam walking in was a breath of life, and Dean made sure himself that Sam's phone was recharged and ready to be used. Only after another hour did Dean realize he still didn't know where Sam had gone.

The guy was an asshole. And a pervert.

Just the way he licked his lips while talking about Sam in the sack the other night made Dean want to take his knife and cut the damn thing right out. Maybe he could give the guy a quick neuter while he was at it. God knows the world could use less perverts as him.

Dean settled for clobbering his face. He had already gotten the information he needed from the bartender anyway, so it didn't matter if he got kicked out.

Hearing Sam's confession had come as a shock, but not really. Dean wasn't sure what he found shocking about it, maybe the way Sam just came out and said it. He couldn't remember. It's rather hard to remember exact emotions at exact times.

He remembers denying Sam, and the withering look that just made Dean think that Sam was going to start dying inside if he hadn't already started.

But this was his brother, right? He never thought of Sam in that way, the way Sam thought of him. He loved his brother, but only as a brother, right?

He had thought about it. It was kind of hard to not question his own feelings after the Very Bad Idea happened. It was just easier to question his brother's feelings rather than focus on his own. Had he even sorted his own feelings out after that? Or had he merely shoved them aside, with a sticky-note reading 'File later'? It had been a while. Was it months? He wasn't sure. The date was probably set aside with the sticky-noted feelings.

Dean became more attentive to Sam, choosing to watch him. He needed to see what effect he had on his brother.

Plastic smiles.

The image haunted him now, warping the images strewn across his dreams. Sam and his plastic smile, trying – failing – to convince Dean that he was alright. That he didn't die a little every time Dean turned on the charm for a pretty young woman they needed information out of.

Dean didn't sleep with them. He figured he should sort those damn feelings before he did anything. Not that it helped get Sam's hopes up or anything. It stayed the same plastic smile.

Dean found himself wishing for a real smile, where Sam's lips would twitch upwards before exploding into a full-blown grin. Where the corners of his eyes would crinkle _just so_ and his cheeks would be touched with a rosy tint. Dean wanted Sam's eyes to sparkle with the same inner light they always had, rather than the dull reflection of whatever fluorescing light happened to be in the room.

It was a week before he questioned whether these thoughts belonged to that of a brother or a lover.

After that small barrier was breached, Dean found himself thinking of the Very Bad Idea on a bit more of a regular basis. It slipped into his dreams and some of the more inappropriate times.

They happened to be on just a regular old ghost hunt. Some middle-aged lady that was killed or something. Sam remembered the details.

Dean believed he had finally sorted out the sticky-noted feelings, laying on the motel bed as though he was just taking a restful nap. He could hear Sam's finger clacking away on the keypad of his laptop.

It was really just within moments after Dean opened his eyes, finding himself facing the unattractive ceiling. Sam looked up, feeling the close proximity, and was taken by surprise when rough lips crashed upon his.

Dean kissed Sam.

Rough and hard.

It took Sam a moment to register what was happening, though he responded with an eagerness that could have taken Dean by surprise if he hadn't already figured out a bit about how much his brother loved him.

Dean parted his lips, letting his tongue slip past and nudge at Sam's lips, which he easily parted, allowing Dean full reign of his mouth. Dean enjoyed it to the maximum of his abilities, savoring in the taste of Sam. Slightly minty. He _had_ seen Sam eat some tic tacs earlier. He raised his hands, slipping them between strands of Sam's hair, thumbs rubbing against his jaw line.

Dean wouldn't have parted until his breathless lungs commanded it, but Sam pulled away before that order could be made. Dean opened his eyes, looking at Sam, letting his fingertips rest on Sam's collarbone.

"You're not just…" Sam trailed off for a moment, glancing down at the floor for a quick moment. "You're not just doing this to… placate me, are you?" He looked up at Dean through his lashes, as though a little bit afraid of the answer.

"If I was doing that, don't you think I would've done that a month ago?" Dean said, a low growl in the back of his throat. "Now shut up and kiss me again." Sam's lips twitched upwards before exploding into a full-blown grin and he wrapped his arms around Dean's back, placing one hand on the back of his neck and pulling him closer.

As their mouths clashed together, a softer kiss this time, Dean thought this was a Very Good Idea.


End file.
